Stain

February 6th, 2026

The first four times the Dino’s phone rings, Alonzo ignores it.

The fifth time he’s drunk enough to consider replying, but too drunk to pick up the receiver in time – trips over nothing on his way to the desk, and wastes the last few rings cursing every god he can think of.

It’s not until much later, stumbling into his penthouse apartment at about 6am, dawn just beginning to break over the New York City skyline, that he actually manages to make it to the phone – the answering machine blinking with a big red 7 on the display.

“Make it quick,” he slurs, and Jaime obliges.

“Dude, thank God. Finally. Okay, listen, I’m in a lot of trouble. You need to get down here, fast. I’m at the precinct at the corner of 4^th and –”

“Who is this?” Alonzo interrupts.

“It’s Jaime. Listen, I’ve only got the one call, and these guys are not messing around, man. I’ll pay you back, I swear, but I don’t have the money right now, and I’ve got to get –”

“Jaime who.”

“Alonzo, come on.” He sounds pitiful, whiny. Has he always sounded that pathetic? Probably.

“You’re pathetic,” Alonzo repeats aloud. “2 months without a peep, and I’m meant to come running the moment you want something? Forget it, baby.” He drops the receiver, letting it hang inches from the floor – opens the fridge and pretends to rummage around while listening to the tinny sounds coming from the speaker, more sad attempts at sympathy. Pathetic, he thinks, staring dully at the empty shelves, watching them split into blurry copies of one another, stacking and wobbling.

He shuts the fridge door and reaches into his pocket for the bag he bought at the start of the night – squints at it. Enough to get him through the next few hours, he decides.

Alonzo picks up the receiver again.

“4^th and where.”

---

It wasn’t anything new, he supposed.

The first time he’d met Jaime, he’d been sitting with the trash bags in the alley behind Dino’s, clutching his skull and groaning. Alonzo watched him from the shadows, twitching his lips to make the unlit cigarette in his mouth bounce up and down.

“Fuuuuck,” Jaime was saying. “Bro, this is bullshit. Fuck.”

“Who you talking to, sugar?” Alonzo had finally asked, after about a solid two minutes of this – letting the cigarette fall, rolling into a puddle. Jaime had looked up at him, blinking his big brown eyes slowly; I wasn’t sure you were real, he’d said later, sitting at the bar while Alonzo carefully dabbed at the gash on his head with a damp dishcloth. You’re so –

Beautiful? Ethereal? I know, darling. Sit still.

Tall. Like, really fucking tall.

“They jacked my shit, bro,” he’d replied after a moment. “You got another cigarette?”

Alonzo knelt down in front of him, feeling the wet asphalt seep through the fabric of his designer jeans, ruining them in an instant (didn’t matter – he’d seen them on someone else earlier in the evening and decided they were too ugly for a second wear). He placed a new cigarette between Jaime’s lips, and the kid just stared at him in what he assumed was awe.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Pretty little fawn.” He lit Jaime’s cigarette, watching the orange light from the flame dance across his face. “Too pretty to be playing so rough.”

“Whatever, man. Help me up.”

He’d ruined the shirt too, that way – Alonzo purposely yanking a little too hard, making Jaime fall into him, filth from the alley leaving a brownish mark on his chest. Oh, well.

We won’t need clothes where we’re going, will we?

Except after Alonzo finished playing nursemaid, patching Jaime up with various ill-fitting bandages from the sorry excuse for a first-aid kit they had behind the bar (whose job was it to keep that stocked? Alonzo made a mental note to fire them) Jaime had simply ducked under Alonzo’s arm and slid off the barstool, leaving him with nothing but a “thanks, bro. See you around, maybe?”

“Sure, baby,” Alonzo had said to his back. Wet, dirty, disappointed. Rejected. Still holding the bloody dishcloth.

Pathetic.

“See you around.”

---

“Yo, what are you wearing?” Jaime looks as exhausted as Alonzo feels, the coke he’d done in the car before entering the building thoroughly worn off by now.

“Clothes,” Alonzo replies curtly. He’s not in the mood to defend his fashion choices, and doesn’t need to, anyway – he’d received plenty of compliments on his outfit the night before, from people who had better taste than some gang rat. He snaps his fingers. “Come on, sugar – up, up.”

Jaime rises obediently, and Alonzo turns on his heel and click-clacks down the hallway, not bothering to check if Jaime was following. “You’re driving,” he says, tossing his car keys over his shoulder, hearing them clatter on the floor, the slap of Jaime’s sneakers as he rushes forward to scoop them up.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one, big time.”

“Oh, spare me.” Jaime’s bail had been nothing, anyway – nothing that wouldn’t be more than made up for after next weekend. Well, the next couple of weekends. New Year’s. The Mardi Gras thing, that would cover it. Probably. Still need to book the DJ, he thinks to himself, then, fuck the DJ.

Fuck everything.

“Hey, can we swing by McDonald’s? I’m fucking starving, bro.”

Alonzo’s eyes flutter open. He’s slumped in the passenger seat, a sharp pain in his neck as he glances over at Jaime, blithely ashing all over the steering wheel. My cigarettes, he thinks, then, When did we get in the car?

He fumbles around for his bag, finds it. Empty.

“No.”

“It’s on the way.”

“I said no.”

“Yeah, well, I’m driving,” Jaime points out, and turns the car in the opposite direction of Alonzo’s apartment – confirming Alonzo’s suspicion that it is not, in fact, on the way. “You eaten anything? I know you don’t eat. C’mon, I’ll pay.”

“How generous of you,” Alonzo mutters. His head is pounding. “Thought you had no money? What happened to that.”

Jaime shrugs. “I got a little bit. Just not loaded like you.”

Loaded like you – and there it was, of course, the only reason Alonzo had been his one call.

You don’t know any other lonely, rich queers? Get out there, sweetheart. Network. We’re a dime a dozen.

Oh, I forgot, you’re too busy – what was it this time? Holding up a liquor store? Mugging a tourist? Peddling street trash? Your resume is so long, querido, it’s so hard to keep track.

“I’m not hungry,” is all he says. “It’s too early to eat.”

Jaime laughs. “Bro, it’s like, 10am.” He takes another cigarette out of the pack – my pack, Alonzo thinks. “You want hashbrowns? I’ll get you some hashbrowns.”

“I don’t want hashbrowns. Take me the fuck home.” Alonzo watches helplessly as Jaime pulls into – for fuck’s sake – the parking lot. “Jaime –”

“You’ll feel better once you eat. Trust me.” Jaime turns off the car and twirls the keys around his finger. “You coming in or waiting here?”

---

He comes in. Regrets it almost immediately, the stench of grease making his stomach turn, and he bolts for the men’s room.

When he comes out, Jaime’s sat at a table with a horrible beige smorgasbord spread out in front of him. “Take whatever you want,” he says, already munching away. “Got you a coffee, too.”

Alonzo picks up the coffee, sniffs it suspiciously. “So?”

“So what?”

“So, why are we here.” He takes a sip, burns his tongue. For the best, probably.

Jaime frowns. “At McDonald’s?”

“No, you imbecile.” Alonzo sets the cup down, pushes it away with one finger. “What did you do.” Why am I bailing you out of jail on a Thursday morning instead of sleeping off my hangover – well, he knows the answer to that question.

Jaime stops chewing, sets down the sandwich. “It was an accident,” he begins, and Alonzo sighs irritably.

“I’m not a cop or your mother. Just tell me what happened.”

“Okay, so there was this guy, right? And he was in the red, like, waaay in the red. So we were supposed to rough him up a bit, you know? Like teach him a lesson or whatever. So we get to this guy’s place – mmm – hey!”

“Sweetheart,” Alonzo says as calmly as he can muster, pressing his finger firmly against Jaime’s lips, “I don’t need the details. I don’t care about the story. What. Happened?”

He removes his finger.

“I shot him.”

Alonzo taps his finger against the table, licks his lips. “Dead?” he asks finally.

“Yeah.” Jaime picks up a soda, slurps loudly. “But like I said, it was an accident.”

Alonzo purses his lips and stares at the ceiling for a moment. “You killed someone.”

“Yeah,” Jaime says, a little defensively this time, “so what? Some guy OD’d at Dino’s a couple weeks ago, I don’t see you crying over it.” Before Alonzo can decide where to begin ripping apart that statement – perhaps with those are not remotely the same thing, or you’ve been keeping tabs on my club but not talking to me? – Jaime follows up with, “anyways, it doesn’t matter. You still got the same lawyer, right? I’ll be fine.”

“My lawyer?” Alonzo asks incredulously. “You must be joking.”

“Come on, Alonzo. Don’t be a dick.” He leans back in his chair. “Look, I know I haven’t been around much. I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been busy. El Norte is like, legit. I’m finally getting somewhere.” He sighs deeply, rubbing at his eyes. “Or, whatever. I was. Anyway, you gotta help me out, bro. Please. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Jaime...” The best lawyer in the world won’t be able to get you out of this, he thinks. Not with your rap sheet. It was a goddamn miracle that you didn’t go to prison last time. And that’s assuming I would even be able to get ahold of him, which –

“Please, Alonzo.” He reaches across the table and takes Alonzo’s hand before he can move it away. “Just call the guy? If he says no then like, whatever. I’ll figure it out.” He smiles faintly, then squeezes Alonzo’s hand – big brown eyes wide, pleading. Bambi eyes. Pretty little fawn. “Please?”

Alonzo squeezes back after a moment – then squeezes harder. Tighter. Like he’s trying to crush the bones between his fingers.

“No,” he says, and lets go. Jaime looks hurt.

“Alonzo –”

“You can figure it out,” he says, cutting Jaime off. “Like you said, right, sugar?” He stands up, swiping his car keys off the table. “I’m going home.”

“Alonzo, wait –”

“For what?” Alonzo nearly shouts – catching the eye of a man at a nearby table, who he’s pretty sure heard him vomiting in the bathroom earlier. “For what,” he repeats in a low voice. “I’m sick of your stupid little games. I’m sick of you. You call me – after two months –” His throat feels like it’s closing up. “The answer is no,” he finishes, once he regains the ability to speak. “I’m done. I'm hungover. I’m tired. I’m going home.”

He stalks out of the building, ignoring Jaime’s protests – gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door.

The fucking nerve, he thinks, staring at his hands, white gloves covered in greasy fingerprints where Jaime had touched him.

Just call the guy?

Fat chance.

He slams his head into the steering wheel and screams.

---